


Hunted

by Exophile_3D (bearbane)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action, Adventure, Demon, Detective, F/M, Murder, Paranormal Romance, Romance, birthmark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27045427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearbane/pseuds/Exophile_3D
Summary: A female detective investigates a string of grisly murders with the same M.O.: rch, attractive young women are being killed in upmarket areas of London. Little does she suspect the journey she's about to embark on will expose her to a side of reality she never knew existed and put her in a position where she must make a difficult choice.Tags and rating will be updated as the story develops.This has been languishing on my hard drive for years. Now that I'm actually writing again, I figure if I post this, I might actually get it moving again. :)
Relationships: male demon / female detective
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Hunted

The amber liquid sloshes into the shot glass and I watch it impatiently, eager to slake my thirst. I nod to the barman and grab the glass almost before he’s finished pouring. God, I need this.  
Irritating laughter cuts across my enjoyment of that first sip and my eye is drawn to its source. A man is lounging on one of the white leather sofas at the back of the _Electrique’s_ bar, surrounded by a disproportionate number of women. He is stunningly, classically handsome and the girls are fawning all over him. My lip curls. I know his type. I used to moon over guys just like him when I was younger. The chiseled jaw, shaded with just the right amount of designer stubble, the high cheekbones, the sparkling blue eyes, rimmed with black lashes, and the thick, arched brows all combine into an almost irresistible package. He looks like a celebrity A-lister, and he dresses the part. His suit looks like it cost more than I make in a month, and his haircut more than two weeks’ rent on my crappy fourth-floor flat. He is effortlessly gorgeous, but boy does he know it.

  
I tear my gaze away and knock back another mouthful of my drink, savouring the rawness of the cheap whisky. It’s been a hell of a week, and sometimes you need the rougher stuff to burn away the sights. Two more murders in the Docklands, both young women, both dressed for a night out in one of the more upmarket areas of London, both with their hearts physically ripped from their ribcages. You probably have no idea how hard it is to do something like that; how much strength is required. I did one semester as an apprentice mortician to broaden my understanding of anatomy. I’ll never forget how hard it was to get the bone saw through the ribcage, and how much strength it took to crack it open. I sprained my wrist the first time I tried. And threw up. The point is, mortuary work just wasn’t for me, but there was one thing I did learn: if you want to punch straight through someone’s ribs and rip out an internal organ, you’d better have a hydraulic arm. Or bring the Hulk.

The gaggle of girls has quietened somewhat while I’ve been lost in thought. The A-lister lookalike is telling a story now, his voice low and teasing. A quick glance across shows them all listening with bated breath, some of them preening a little in the interval, adjusting their plunging necklines or throwing their hair over their shoulders. The guy is lapping it up, leaning back in his chair with one ankle resting on his knee, and an arm thrown casually behind the woman to his left. His teeth are dazzling white. I can see them shining twenty feet away. I shake my head and take another swig of my drink, knowing that deep down I am just irrationally annoyed that these people can be so relaxed, so utterly oblivious to the horrific crimes being committed on the streets. I wish I had so little responsibility. Or so little social conscience.

What’s bothering me most is that our list of suspects stands at absolute zero at the moment. We’re building a profile of course: we’re pretty certain the suspect is male, probably young, fit and attractive. The girls were all single, dressed for a good night out in a high-class area, and the autopsies revealed no sign of date-rape drugs or any indication of a struggle. They all went willingly to their deaths. The crime scenes were abandoned areas, well off the beaten track, where few people would be likely to hear them scream, and even fewer likely to report it. The girls must have felt safe with the murderer to go with him to such unsavoury locations, perhaps lured in by the idea of sordid sex in sordid surroundings, an escape from the sanitised glamour of their lives. It’s funny how we always want what we don’t have. 

The A-lister glances my way and our eyes meet, my thousand-yard stare instantly broken. He winks at me and it’s like a jolt of electricity through my chest. It feels good to be noticed, to imagine the glance means I’m being found attractive in someone else’s eyes. Dave only moved out three weeks ago, but already I’m missing that male presence in my life. My more feminist friends would rip the piss out of me for it, but it’s something I need, something that helps me cope with the hand life dealt me. Dave and I never had a chance long term, though. We had so little in common it wasn’t even funny. There was a time when I’d never have considered dating a guy who didn’t share my love of Marvel comics, my passion for cheesy 80s sword and sorcery films, my secret fondness for Disney. But times change. When my friends moved away and I stopped meeting like-minded people due to the demands of my job, I changed my expectations and dated anyone I found remotely attractive.

More insipid giggling rises from the back of the room, topped off with a goose-like honking laugh from a blonde with a dress cut so low I wonder if she has it on backwards. I neck the rest of my drink and try to decide if I want another or not, given the annoying surroundings. An arm brushes my sleeve as someone takes a position next to me at the bar. I move a little to the left to give them elbow room and put my glass back down on the polished wood, rather harder than I’d intended.

“Another two bottles of Crystal, please.” The voice is cultured, rich and mellow, with just a hint of something foreign. “And another refill for the lady - it looks like she could use one.”  
It takes me a minute to realise he’s referring to me. It’s not often I get called a lady. I like to dress practically for my job, in dark jeans and low-heeled boots, topped with a short leather jacket. Some women in my position do their job in pencil skirts and stilettos. Personally, I like to be able to run if I need to, keep the perpetual rain off my back, and I know from experience it’s not easy to get blood out of good fabric.

I turn my head with the words, ‘No thanks, I was just leaving’ on the tip of my tongue and stop short. It’s the A-lister guy, and he’s looking at me with those sparkling blue eyes from under that beautifully-coiffed golden-brown hairdo. My mouth goes dry and my cheeks redden in a way they haven’t since I was a teenager and horribly embarrassed by the strawberry birthmark that covers most of my left cheek. I swallow and turn fully towards him so he can see my entire face. He’ll wince, make his excuses and leave. I’ve seen it a hundred times before.

We stare at each other. His expression doesn’t change. I feel like I’m engaged in a game of chicken. Which one of us will break first? Damn it, you handsome bastard, turn away!

“Whisky, was it?” he asks, his smile stark white against a tan that I bet didn’t come from a sunbed.

My mouth opens and closes. I can deal with hardened criminals, take personal abuse from people who see me as a pawn of the System, and I’ve dealt with revulsion and rejection every day of my life, but this? I’m just not equipped to deal with this.

“Thanks,” I manage at last. I guess if he had the presence of mind not to flinch at my birthmark, the least I can do is let him buy me a drink.

“Any preference?” he asks. 

I shake my head.

  
“How about the Dalmore?” 

I have no idea what it is, but shrug a tacit agreement while I try to figure him out. Is this charity for the woman sitting alone at the bar, or is he expecting me to join his little Playboy coterie as a new hanger-on? Either way, I guess the drink must be expensive, because the barman has to get a stool to get it off the top shelf. I note it’s dusty, but the bottle has a metal stag’s head embossed around the neck, and it has a wooden stopper. Another good sign.

While the barman loads the champagne and glasses onto a tray, I try the whisky. It makes the stuff I was drinking earlier taste like supermarket petrol. I nod appreciatively. “Thanks.”

He extends his hand, blinding smile firmly in place. “Alex,” he says.

“Sofia,” I reply, taking his hand and grasping it firmly. I can’t stand handshakes that feel like limp lettuce, and I like to lead by example.

“Wisdom,” he murmurs.

“What?” I demand, bemused.

“Your name, it’s Greek for wisdom,” he says, leaning against the bar and playing with his cufflinks. I note they have tiny arc reactors embossed on them and I label myself quietly impressed.

“And what about yours?”

Alex drops his gaze and gives a lopsided grin. He does a good impression of bashful. “It means ‘defender’,” he says.

“And do you,” I ask, taking another mouthful of the warm, smooth liquor. “Defend anything?”

he grin extends to both sides of his face. “As a matter of fact I do. I’m a lawyer.”

My opinion of him plummets drastically. I have to deal with lawyers on a regular basis and as far as I can work out, they appear to be there to undo all the hard work I’ve done and let criminals back out on the street. It all fits now though, the sharp suit and haircut, the shit-eating grin, the overstuffed wallet and extravagant taste. He’s a lying parasite.

“Well, don’t let me keep you from your friends,” I say, downing the Dalmore and slipping into my jacket. He looks taken aback. I’m sure he has many such expressions stored up for his courtroom performances. “Thanks again for the drink, and enjoy your evening.”

I stalk away, leaving him with the social equivalent of a slap in the face. As I stamp down the steps to street level, my pace slows. I can be an arse sometimes. I got used to being hyper-defensive about my face as a kid, and sometimes that angry, bemused little girl who doesn’t understand why a mark on her face should cause such blind hatred comes back out and starts speaking through her adult counterpart. The guy never even said anything about my birthmark. Granted, he was a player, but that didn’t mean I had any right to be so rude to him. I lean against the wall half-way down the stairs and run my hand through my hair. It’s my one concession to vanity. It’s long, jet black, lustrous and has a tendency to curl. I let my fingers fall to my sides and bang my head gently against the wall. These murders are really getting to me. I need a break, or a fresh perspective, or at the very least a long walk to clear my head.

I stalk out into the street, head down against the incessant drizzle that fills the night air with a sodium orange haze. I let my feet take me me wherever they will, not caring about the destination. I follow the twists and turns of the streets, over London Bridge and into the Docklands, near deserted now this close to midnight on a rainy weeknight. I look up at last to find that my feet have led me back to the last crime scene, still quarantined by blue and white police tape. I duck underneath and walk around the cordoned-off area. It’s an abandoned parking lot, with chunks of concrete of indeterminate purpose scattered around with metal poles protruding like a giant plate of pineapple chunks on sticks. Fallen debris and scattered red bricks cover most of the rest of the floor, along with the ubiquitous twisted, rusting shopping trolleys. 

The forensics department found nothing helpful at the scene: the victim’s body with the heart ripped out - and missing, copious amounts of the victim’s blood, but not a single trace of the perpetrator. No hairs, no body fluids, no clothing fibers. The murderer might as well have been a ghost.

My mobile rings, scaring me half to death and I answer it angrily, cross with myself for letting my imagination get the better of me. “What?” I snap at the voice on the other end of the phone.  
I listen and my face falls. There’s been another murder.


End file.
